PROLOGUE: Markus Ilayan Valquistine

Youth is never an excuse for a blood born noble. Ilayan knows it. Whether he covets power, duty and danger come with his blood.

The warm rustling spring breeze atop the highest small mountain, occupied by a magnificent squared-bricked beacon tower, clashes against the renewed silence that has been away from his ears for three years. His straight figure dressed in a white tunic layered by a brown suede vest blends with the subtlety of the atmosphere, hands clasped behind his back, a sword in his leather belt. There is no movement in his heroic thick brows, nor his dim hazel eyes.

Yet, only he and Captain Arches, the wooden bearded man in silver armor seven steps behind him, recognize his facade for the conflicting sense of fulfillment, nostalgia, and melancholy brought by the battle cries, sacrifices, and heroism he had witnessed and led as a general. His sight is at a distance, piercing the open arched stone window, covering the whole city of timber frames, dilapidated tents, half-built concrete buildings, and the little figures of the people in ragged clothes scurrying from one place to another, immersed in rebuilding their homes.

Gedeva had been a city like firecrackers in the dawn, ten years before the Loreik barbarians came into the portrait, and the street's smooth yellow lime paving stones were now cracked with remnants of the fighting, revealing peeks of the red soil surface. Only a few street stalls and merchant canopies have remained, not even a seller of candied walnuts for the children's delight. Most people, especially nobles, had moved long ago to various regions of the empire, and the population shrank, yet the absence of shadows in the city's sky, blazing in azure, and the emerging carpet and silver grasses promise a new beginning. The aspiration he drew upon his arrival.

Now, his duty here is over.

"General," Captain Arches salutes. "It's time to depart. The local officials and the garrison are already waiting at the city gates."

Ilayan eyes the bare-scalped, freckled middle-aged man. These past three years cost even his excellent troop captain's glorious hair. On his gauntleted hand is a stack of bamboo papers, aged and recent, carefully collected by a piece of sheer white fabric.

"Is this all of them?" Ilayan asks, inspecting the letters. They are not much, only at least twenty. The calligraphy on the envelopes is messy and unpleasant at first sight, an informal address to someone of authority, but there is no contempt from his reaction, considering the strict scholarly bearing of his childhood. Instead, there is a gentle wave on his unmoving forehead. The flutters of honey brown hair and an innocent, restrained curve under timid brows, a picture befitting of the clumsy handwriting floats in his mind. "Is his letter a month ago also in here?"

"Yes General."

"Then let's proceed."

Beats of drums suddenly echo through the city's main street, pulling the ladies and seiths out of their busy kitchen. They rush to wash their faces and find their husbands, asking whether they are presentable enough. Men are no different, discarding the claw hammers on their calloused hands, plunging down their tall ladders, not caring for the unburied nails. With eagerness, they wipe away their bitter sweat, conscious of the stink. Intended or not, they at least wanted to be at their best appeal. That sound is already of everyone's knowledge. The decade-long war had ended with the victory of the realm. After two months of monitoring, the youngest and remaining general from the capital will finally return to his glorious origins.

The uniformed steps of the marching of fifty horses cease as they arrive at the city's entrance, the once majestic century-old stone walls now flawed with fissures and holes, yet the one-hundred-feet tall fortress still held his ground, towering with might and pride. Both sides of the road filled with mostly malnourished people, creating an aisle of crowd. From the beggars wearing tattered robes, peasants, to the local tyrants who stayed during the war; all have bubbles of reluctance in their eyes. Some stifle their tears, yet more than that, not slightly concealing their admiration and gratefulness, they try to posture a noble's courtesy, hands clasped in the chest and eyes lowered.

Although accustomed to attention, the people's vivid sincerity still overwhelmed Ilayan. Near the wide-open wooden double gate, under the metal portcullis, men wearing neat light blue robes lined behind a wrinkled man in an official cape, white eagle insignia on their chest. A tiger-eyed, burly man in plate mail armor stances seven meters away from them, in front of saluting sunburned men sporting hunter-green long-skirted coats and helmets, lion heads on their breasts, swords hanging by their waist.

"My lord," old age seeps in the mayor's voice. He bows longer than the usual courtesy. The crowd holds their silence. Among the people present, the city lord also witnessed Ilayan's brilliance on the battlefield. Being the second in command, he is less arrogant than the major general and cordial even to sharp-chinned peasants. But despite his youth, he ameliorated the city's martial force. From a bloodless young master to a decisive leader. With him and other excellent seedlings, there is already an assurance for the future generation. Only, if possible, they wish to extend his stay at Gedeva, but their voices are not comparable to the court's order.

"Today, I will speak in front of you again," says Ilayan, high on his mount. "But I'm afraid this will be for the last time. As for the Emperor's decree, my duty here is done. And unfortunately, my leave will be inevitable. However, the mayor and the newly appointed garrison will always be here for you to rely on. And if the moment comes for Gedeva to need my strength again, I will not hesitate!" he declares in the same voice he uses when commanding at battles; deep and solid.

"Glory to the General!" the people exclaim, bowing down for reverence. They once heard him speak like that—three years ago. It is enough to make their hearts settle. Some of their tears might have fallen, yet it fell on their smiling lips.

"May the deities bless the General for your safe journey," says General Plion, commander of the garrison.

"The city of Gedeva will forever be grateful towards you, my lord. You are always welcome here," the mayor follows.

By the hints of the final farewell, Captain Arches blows his whistle; a signal to the soldiers and the crowd. The mayor leads the people to bow down again. A three-year worth of deep gratitude.

"Until next time Gedeva."

The horses trot down the commercial road, producing rhythm of heavy poundings, yet it is not any louder than the masses' cheer of blessings; fanaticism for the gentleman, endless praises, and parting messages.

Not only after several minutes when the mayor raises his grey-haired head, the waving crowd, and their noise gradually disperse, only he, the officials, and the garrison remained in their places, his rusty eyes squint, capturing the shrinking figure of Ilayan in a handsome black mount behind the wild curtain of dust. He is on the rear, making his troops a backdrop, so as, straightening his arching back, his dull blue pelisse dances as the fading war flags.

'General Markus Ilayan Valquistine,' he smiles.

---END OF CHAPTER---

-noir_alois-